


This is not an Oatmeal Cooking

by okapi



Category: Mой нежно любимый детектив | My Dearly Beloved Detective (1986)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Canon Backstory, F/F, Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 221B ficlets in the "My Dearly Beloved Detective" 'verse, which is a 1986 Russian movie about a female detective named Shirley Holmes and her assistant Jane Watson.</p><p>15. I DO. Lester/Mister Biggs. Mister Green and Jane do a bit of matchmaking. For SCFrankles.</p><p>For the More Holmes collection. Rated for Chapter 5 & 11. The rest is Gen. All chapters stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstory for how Jane came to 221B.

“Avert your doleful gaze, Mister Green. It’s playing havoc with my coiffure.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It _is_ universally acknowledged that a single Holmes in possession of a good detective agency must be in want of a Watson."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I placed a carefully-worded advertisement in the _Globe, Pall Mall, St. James’s, Evening News, Standard,_ and _Echo_. The male readership saw a call for a maid-of-all-work, but the female, so more adept at reading between the yellow and black, knew that something altogether different was required. If not a partner, then an assistant, who will become an equal with time and tutelage. What is a Holmes without a Watson? She needn’t be a Watson, of course, but she need be of Watson _material_. And gentlemen need never apply.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And here, days, interview after interview, with not one candidate giving satisfaction. Most are adequate, but not _Watson_. Out with it, Mister Green. One needn’t be a detective to know you have something to say.”

“Might I propose a young lady, ma'am?”

“Certainly!”

“My niece.”

“False. You have neither siblings nor spouse.”

“When men play cards together for many years,” he shrugged, “the _bonhomie_ is fraternal. Her father, well, he loses. Often. And oftener.”

I hummed. “Is she apt?”

“Quite.”

“Her name?”

“Jane. Jane Watson.”

He smiled. I smirked.

“Beginnings, Mister Green, beginnings.”                                                      


	2. Outsides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane and Shirley's first meeting. 221B x 2. POV Jane then POV Shirley.

“Shall I guide you on an excursion around the flat?”

“Yes, please.”

“Here are the files of criminals who can’t wait to be arrested…”

_Why does she sound like a gramophone?_

_Those eyes see everything, but what do they see when they look at me? A silly girl, no doubt._

“The stories, forty-four…”

_Where are the other sixteen? Nod, Janey._

“Pipes…”

_Does she smoke? No, her teeth are far too white. Smile, Janey._

“The dressing room…”

_Say something, Janey._ “How extraordinary!”

“The unsophisticated modern tools of the criminal world…”

_Truly unsophisticated. Those marked cards would not even fool Papa._

“Photos and sketches of the scammers…”

_What a tender world if all the villains looked so blatantly villainous. Don’t laugh, Janey. Looked shocked._

“Small evidences found in crime scenes…”

_Nice gloves._

“And the disguises…”

_To be what one is not seems the most devilish part of the endeavor. Ah, but what have we here?_

“A small number of weapons are kept on the premises. Some for their historical value, others for protection of person and property. Would you care to see?”

_Nod demurely. Not eager. Never eager._

_Hello, beauties. Which one of you cares to dance?_

_Time to show one’s true colours. Papa always says, though never to me, naturally,_

_‘A man’s best calling card is either a kiss or a bullet.’_

* * *

I study the shattered remains of the lamp, then locate the bullet wedged in the wall. The neighbours will not be alarmed. My penchant for domestic target practice is well-documented.

“You may take the cost of that atrocious furnishing out of my first week’s wages, ma’am,” she says.

“Nonsense. I shall reward you for ridding that monstrosity from sight,” I reply. “Good shot, by the way.”

And to think that when I’d given her the usual excursion about the flat, I’d been disappointed. Her name had sent my expectations soaring, and though I knew that she could not be a former Army doctor, I had hoped for something of a soldier’s iron before, and, more importantly, after battle; something of a doctor’s fortitude in the face of the ugly, the unfortunate, and the evil.

I’d pronounced her ‘just a girl,’ she of the demure nods, demure smiles, forgetting what being ‘just a girl’ requires in this wretched world.

“Forgive me, Miss Watson. I have done you, and the detective profession, a grave injustice by judging a book by its cover. Pure recklessness as I wear so many covers myself.”

A lie. Pure recklessness would be to dwell on the curve of that bottom lip.

“Shall we begin again?” I ask.

“So, I will do?”

‘Yes’ is inadequate, so I say,

“Beautifully.”


	3. First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shirley and Jane's first kisses.

The first time Shirley kissed Jane was for a case.

Of all the elements of detective work that Jane was expected to master, disguises posed the greatest challenge. The obstacle, Jane knew, lay in the initial step, in surmounting her fear of, discomfort with, and, yes, a bit of disgust at the notion.

Nevertheless, the case called for surveillance. Jane and Shirley were a young couple on a stroll in the park when a sudden gust of wind blew their target’s hat off his head. He turned, spotted them. In a flurry, Shirley’s face was in front of Jane’s. Then her lips were on Jane’s cheek. Jane cried out, then struck out. A row ensued.

Jane would always remember that day, not for the kiss, but because it was the first day she’d received a compliment from Shirley on anything save her marksmanship.

The first time Jane kissed Shirley Jane had been Mrs. Robbie Summers for no less than forty-seven minutes. They said good-bye once, then twice. Jane gave Shirley half her daisy bouquet.

Shirley walked on, thinking she could still feel the press of Jane’s lips to her cheek, and like a schoolgirl, plucked one stem bare of petals, whispering ‘she will love me, she will love me not.’

The first time Shirley and Jane kissed each other was bliss.


	4. Laughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you ever laugh, Shirley?" 
> 
> First kiss. Shirley/Jane. Mention of original character, Tilly, daughter of Jane & Robbie Summers. First half is during canon and second half is 10+ years post canon.

“Do you ever laugh, Shirley?”

“Jane, your memory is abysmal. Why just this afternoon I gave a raucous guffaw in your presence.”

“I mean you, not you in disguise.”

“I’m amused on occasion, such as yesterday morning when Mister Green burnt the oatmeal.”

“But you didn’t laugh.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Shirley shrugged. “A laugh is an identifying characteristic. I suppose at some point I decided that it would be more efficient not to have one.”

“Robbie laughs so easily.”

“No doubt. Which reminds me, Jane, your surveillance training...”

* * *

“Jane! Let’s go! You’re not even dressed! What are you doing? This is not an oatmeal cooking!”

“It _is_ an oatmeal cooking. Tilly’s not had breakfast yet, and I’m not leaving until she does.”

Jane turned, grinning and brandishing a wooden spoon in Shirley’s direction.

What an utterly blissful moment, Shirley thought, ten years in the making.

And it was impossible to say who was more surprised, Jane when Shirley laughed or Shirley when Jane closed the distance between them and kissed her soundly.

They collapsed into a chair together, Jane on Shirley’s lap, still kissing and laughing, while the scent of burnt oatmeal filled the room.

And when Tilly finally arrived downstairs, she gasped at the sight of her mother in the arms of her bedtime story hero, the dashing Captain Basil.

 


	5. Lust et al. (Rating: Mature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B x 6. Brothel/Bare/Bottom/Bosom/Beast/Better. Shirley allows herself one irrational thought a day.
> 
> Rating: Mature (for a bit of frottage). The prompts are: lust, skin, possession, perfume, dirty, and ribbon. Jane's corset (& the inspiration for the whole thing) is the FairyGothMother's [kk-01](http://www.fairygothmother.co.uk/collections/corsets/products/kk-01-overbust-corset) in blue brocade.

****

“Shirley, did I get the make-up right?”

Could there be anything wrong with Jane’s plump, naturally pink—and now unnaturally even pinker—bottom lip?

No, there could not.

“Yes. Well done.”

"You seemed a million miles away just now.”

Shirley’s skin felt warm.

“I was thinking.”

“You’re always thinking. This time was different.”

“I was having an irrational thought.”

“A rarity, no doubt.”                                                              

Jane’s teasing tone was like a speck of grit on the lens.

“I allow myself one a day.”

Shirley winced at her own words. Reckless.

Jane laughed. “One irrational thought a day? What, like sweets to child?”

Shirley’s hand went to her cheek; her mind registering the latent need to hide the blush that was surely spreading across her face.

“Yes. I am, after all, human. Not an automaton.”

More recklessness!

“I’ve never once thought you were a machine, Shirley.” Jane’s tone was as soft as her ringlets. “Care to share?”

Shirley’s eyes fixed on Jane’s plump, perfectly pink, bottom lip. It moved up and down as she spoke and grew larger as she neared.

“I was thinking of the seven deadly sins.”

“Oh! Lust?”

“Yes.”

Shirley wondered if the earth would kindly swallow her whole, then cursed herself for wasting tomorrow’s irrational thought.

“But that’s not irrational,” said Jane.

“No?”

“After all, we are infiltrating a brothel.”

* * *

Jane’s skin.

Her neck. Well, that was not so uncommon. Shirley saw Jane’s neck every day, but with her hair piled high in a sculpture of curls, it seemed longer and more elegant than usual.

Her shoulders were anything but common, her arms, the plunging V of her cleavage, her legs swathed in nude stockings, and Shirley noted as Jane turned, even most of her bottom, peeking out from beneath the corset.

So much skin. So much _Jane_.

Shirley slowed her breathing and averted her gaze, but she could not rid her mind of the image. She could not rid her hands of the desire to touch skin. Every inch of it. To know its texture, soft and hard. To put her nose to it, know its scent. To map Jane’s hair and freckles and, yes, even that seven-year-old scar on her shin.

“Bit of powder?”

Shirley stared at the fluffy brush in Jane’s hand and was momentarily soothed by the lack of strain in her own voice when she said,

“Good idea.”

Surely Jane must know. Surely she must read it in Shirley’s face. Surely she must recognise it in Shirley’s trembling hand as she dotted Jane’s shoulders and breasts and bottom with shimmery flecks.

Jane was the one in corset and stockings, but Shirley was the one stripped bare.

* * *

“Your training is paying off.”

“None of my usual nervousness. That’s because normally I’m pretending to be someone different from who I am, but this time…”

“Secret past, Jane?”

“No. I suppose I’m just a bit of a tart underneath.” She looked over her shoulder and winked.

Drunk.

Shirley was drunk.

“Have you need of further rehearsal, Jane?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I will change into…” Shirley’s disguise hung on the door of the wardrobe.

“No. Wouldn’t want to get your nice clothes wrinkled.”

Shirley nodded. “Prudent.”

Jane straddled Shirley’s lap.

“They will ogle you like an object and handle you like a possession. A disposable one.”

Jane nodded.

“They will view you as a collection of parts, not a whole.”

Jane smirked. “And how are my parts, Shirley?”

Like those of Venus, thought Shirley, for right before her eyes, Jane’s breasts were rising from a sea of blue brocade, but she said, “They’ll give ample satisfaction,” for ‘ample’ was, indeed, the word. “Can you breathe?”

Jane’s hourglass figure was courtesy of a torturous system of corsetry hidden beneath ripples and bows of cream-coloured ribbon.

“Yes. Can you?”

Drunk. Or dreaming. Or delirious.

“I suppose some prefer an ample top,” mused Jane as she stood, turned, and sank down into Shirley’s cupped hands, “while others, or so I’m told, favour a firm bottom.”

* * *

“They will treat you roughly,” said Shirley as she kneaded Jane’s buttocks.

“But you wouldn’t, would you, Shirley?”.

“Not at first, and never if you didn’t ask.”

Jane’s thighs were framed by suspender and stockings and the ribboned edge of the corset. Shirley squeezed them, too. Then she slid one hand between Jane’s legs.

“No knickers at all, Jane?”

Jane nodded to a scrap of blue silk on the dressing table. “Didn’t want to get them wrinkled.” She began to rut against Shirley’s cupped hand. “Perhaps a bit of perfume.”

“Good idea. Will hide the scent of sex.”

“That bad?” groaned Jane.

“Theirs,” growled Shirley as she leaned up to bite Jane’s neck.

“What happened to ‘never at first, etcetera’?”

“That was for real Jane. You are a spike in fever or the ghost of too many glasses of Montrachet.”

Jane laughed and reached for a bottle on the dressing table.

“Points of pulse, where your body is warmest.”

“I don’t need instruction in this, Shirley. Neck.”

Shirley kissed Jane’s neck.

“Wrists.”

Jane curled her arms behind her, one by one. Shirley kissed her wrists.

“Inside of the elbows. Behind the knees. Ankles.”

Shirley watched Jane’s chest rise and fall with her movements. She caught glimpses of her own fingers curled beneath Jane. Then Jane twisted in her arms.

“And bosom.”

* * *

“Shirley, did I get the make-up right?”

The mouth drawn atop Jane’s own mouth was red and garish.

Shirley blinked. “Yes, Jane. Well done.”

The red mouth smiled. "You seemed a million miles away just now.”

Shirley smiled. “I was thinking.”

“You’re always thinking. This time was different.”

“I was having an irrational thought.”

“Oh.” The red mouth pouted.

Shirley could never resist an experiment. “I allow myself one a day.”

“Only one irrational thought a day?”

Shirley nodded and waited. For laughter. For a wink. For a cheeky reply. For something of her fantasy Jane to bleed into the reality of the tiny dressing room.

Jane sighed loudly and rested her head on her gloved hand. Her eyes drifted to the mirror. “Wouldn’t that be nice? To just have one. I think loads of silly thoughts all day long. I suppose that’s why I am the clown,” she adjusted her red-and-yellow silk suit, “and you’re the lion tamer. I know infiltrating this circus is important, but I still think that you are awful brave, Shirley.”

Disappointment, then shame, fluttered in Shirley’s chest like butterflies caught in a net.

 _This_ was precisely why she allowed herself only one irrational thought a day.

She felt dirty.

Well, there was nothing more cleansing, more wholly distracting, than going whip-to-claw with a ferocious beast.

* * *

“Do you remember the circus case?”

“Of course.”

“On the first day, in the dressing room, you confessed that you allowed yourself one irrational thought a day. Was it of me, your thought that day?”

“My irrational thoughts are, were, often of you, Jane.”

“I sensed something in the way you looked at me. I’ve never forgot it.” Jane smoothed a hand down the sliver of mattress between them. “I’m sorry, Shirley.”

“For what?”

“If you suffered because of me, my ignorance. Then I didn’t even have words for this.”

Shirley shrugged.

“So, will you tell me?”

“What?”

“Your irrational thought, the one you had that day. I know you remember. You remember everything.”

A wide smile spread across Shirley’s face.

“That naughty, eh?” Jane crawled atop Shirley. She rested her chin on Shirley’s chest and waggled her eyebrows. “Tell me, please.” She batted her eyelashes coyly. “Bedtime story?”

“It’s almost morning.”

Jane pressed her lips to Shirley’s skin, then nuzzled between her breasts. “Please, Shirley.”

“It’s story of lust and skin and possession and perfume. And it’s a story of blue brocade. And of ribbons.”

“Ribbons?”

“Cream-coloured ripple ribbon trim.” With one finger, Shirley traced an undulating bodice neckline on Jane’s skin. “It was a lurid fantasy, and I shall begin with the moral.”

“Which is?”

“Reality is far better.”


	6. Wealth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of scenes from a MDBD version of _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. Post-canon. With Tilly, Jane's daughter.

“Shirley, are you certain?”

“Jane, I don’t speak idly.”

Jane beamed.

“There is no one who is better worth having at my side when I am in a tight place. I said it at the hotel earlier and I say it now and to anyone who cares to know. And the eagerness with which Lady Henrietta hailed you as a companion only serves to underline the assessment.”

“Her reaction to the idea was rather splendid.”

“But you shall go armed, Jane. Legend or no, something foul is afoot.”

Jane nodded. “Sounds a bit fascinating, really. It’s my first adventure on my own!”

I smiled. “But you need to report very carefully to me, and when the crisis comes, I will direct how you shall act.”

“Oh, but Tilly?”

“Will be fine with Mister Green and me.”

Jane grinned. “Saturday.”

* * *

They waved until the train disappeared from sight. Then, Tilly looked up at Shirley and asked, “You’re going after her, aren’t you?”

A smile twitched on Shirley’s lips. “What does your thick book say about wealth and hearts, Tilly?”

“It’s ‘treasure’ not wealth, and it says ‘For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’”

“I will be near, watching, waiting for when I’m needed.”

Tilly squeezed Shirley’s hand.

“I, for one, am glad. This is an ugly, dangerous business.”


	7. Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane dreams on the train to Dartmoor. Fusion with the animated series _Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century_.

Grey melancholy hills came into view. The train swayed like a mother’s hip. Jane’s fingers released their grip on the novel in her lap.

* * *

“Jane. Jane Watson.”

“Shirley?”

Jane forced her eyes open.

Two faces stared at her. A woman’s—not Shirley—and a metal sphere with a face— _Shirley!_ —carved into it.

“Ms. Watson, I’m Inspector Beth Lestrade. You may recognize my ancestor.” She held up a photo of a mustachioed man.

Jane winced.

“If it’s any consolation, buffoonery has been weeded out of the family line. It’s the twenty-second century, Ms. Watson, and you’ve been regenerated.”

Jane blinked, then looked at the metal face. “Shirley?”

“No, this is Holmes,” said Lestrade. “She’s a compudriod. A kind of thinking machine. And my assistant. She’s read everything about Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson; everything about you and Shirley Holmes; and, well, everything about everything.”

“Hello, Jane.”

“Hello.” Jane smiled, so did the machine. “But Shirley was also preserved.”

“And that’s why you’re back. Her body’s been stolen from the Baker Street museum. The main suspect is a rogue geneticist named Martin Fenwick. We need your help to get her back.”

* * *

“Jane.”

Jane’s novel was being retrieved from the floor of the compartment.

Lady Henrietta said, “ _The Time Machine_. Apt, too. Neothlic huts. Darkness. Ancient curses. The past awaits us at Baskerville.”


	8. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shirley and Jane comfort Mary Sutherland. Re-imagining of ACD story "A Case of Identity." Post-film.

“To think I met him at a gasfitters’ ball! My betrothed! My step-father! When he said he didn’t dance, I thought him charming, not suspicious!”

“Drink this, Miss Sutherland,” said Jane, pressing a glass of brandy into her hands.

“If you require further proofs—,” said Shirley

“No, I believe you. And mother knew! Oh, weakness and greed to the point of absurdity! I feel so foolish, angry, hurt! I can never go home!”

 “We cannot offer empathy, Miss Sutherland. This betrayal is as unusual as it is grievous—,” said Shirley gently.

“And I'm afraid the scales fell from my eyes one-by-one over a tediously long number of years,” added Jane ruefully. “Not all at once.”

“—but we can offer sympathy and sanctuary. You are welcome to stay here as you mourn your losses and chart a new course for yourself. If you wish, Jane will remain with you while I collect your belongings and deal with any unpleasantness.”

Shirley looked a bit too gleeful at the last bit, Jane thought.

“Oh, how could I have been so stupid! I can’t even breathe!” A hand fluttered. A pair of pince-nez fell. Jane retrieved them .

“Shirley?”

Shirley took the glasses, studying them. “Oh, Miss Sutherland,” she said with a smile. “A visit to the oculist and never again will you be so blind.”


	9. Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shirley and Jane row over Tilly's involvement in a case. Post-film but pre-slash.

“…involving Tilly in your schemes, Shirley! You should be ashamed. She’s a child!”

“Precisely. A child and thus, invisible. She’s a quick study. She could be useful in any number of scenarios, including this morning’s caper, but regardless of my schemes, as you call them, you have my word that her safety is paramount, Jane.”

Jane stirred the oatmeal, then stabbed a particularly oafish lump with her wooden spoon. “There are enough dangers in the world.”

“True, so why not give her a role fighting danger? Might awaken a true cavalier in her. But, of course, you have the final word.”

Jane dropped sultanas two by two in the pot and stirred. Then she slumped against the stove.

“It’s selfish, but she’s my only joy now, Shirley. And if something happens to her…”

“I shan’t risk her for anything.” Shirley frowned. “But speaking of joy, perhaps it’s time to seek out another one for yourself, smaller, of course, but something in addition to Tilly.”

“That’s allowed?”

“I seem to remember you taking a ghoulish glee in besting me at marksmanship.”

“I’ve not held a gun in over a decade, Shirley.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle.”

Jane shook her head.

“Oh, Jane."

Jane shrugged.

“Target practice, I'll hear no protests, then we collect Tilly and you’re both learning to ride a bicycle.”

 


	10. Strangers & Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B x 2. Christmas, before and after Jane and Shirley's reunion. H/C. Fluff. Post-film.

The third Christmas after Robbie was gone, truly gone, was the worst.

The first Christmas Jane was still pretending that everything was fine, and it was not all artifice, for there were still reserves, of money, of food, of hope. There were still confident answers to Tilly’s questions of ‘Daddy?’

The year that followed drained most of those reserves, that confidence, but at the second Christmas, the charade continued, less cheerful, more threadbare, but still a three act performance.

The third year, however, when wreathes and garlands began popping up on shop windows, Jane had to admit defeat. Not only was Christmas not coming, Tilly was almost old enough to know and almost keen enough to suspect why.

The next year would be better. By the fourth Christmas, Jane would have ways of making ends meet, if not for herself, then at least for Tilly, but she didn’t know that, not that Christmas.

That Christmas she only knew despair.

Until the knock at the door.

“Oh, my goodness!”

“Is it ours, Mummy?”

“Let’s see. The tag says that it is.”

Jane dragged the box inside. Rich aromas filled the air.

“Oh, Mummy!”

Turkey, cheese, bread, sweets, fruit, coffee. Hair ribbons.

They threw their arms around one another.

Jane marveled at the kindness of strangers and said a prayer for their unknown benefactor.

* * *

“Shirley.”

“Jane!”

“Keep your voice down. You’ll wake Tilly.”

“Jane.”

“What is this?!”

“I thought we weren’t waking Tilly.”

“Christmas is a celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, Shirley.”

“Very true and, as you are probably aware, Jane,” Shirley shot Jane a look; Jane rolled her eyes, “last night was the longest and darkest night of the year, and today marks the reversal of the sun’s ebbing presence in sky. All sorts of festivities taking place this time of year, but unfortunately, not so much crime, at least not of the interesting sort. All well, there's always indexing.”

“Shirley, the crèche.”

“A bit large for its kind, isn’t it, Jane? But it’s got the essentials: angels, shepherds, sheep, kings, Mary, Joseph, donkey, and manger. I deduce that your tradition is to wait until Christmas Day to place Jesus in the manger.”

“Yes, it is and that’s my point. Shirley, I know this is our first Christmas together, and we all want Tilly to enjoy it, but really, you’re spoiling her—and it’s sacrilege.”

“What is?”

“The puppy in the manger!”

Shirley turned the corner. “Oh, Mister Green,” she said as she approached the crèche, “well done.” She picked up the squirming bundle and called, “Tilly!” Then she whispered, “Your name is Gladstone and you are a very good boy.”

 


	11. Spring & Water & Taste (Rating: Mature)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B x 3. Shirley and Jane, together, at Winter Solstice, Christmas Eve, and two days after Christmas (the day of "The Blue Carbuncle," with references to the canon story).
> 
> Mature rating. POV Shirley.

The longest night of the year could not be long enough.

Not with Jane, nude save for the dressing gown that shielded her delectable shoulders from winter’s chill, astride Shirley. She moved slowly, steadily, as if they had all night, which they did.

All night and then some, thanks to the tilt of an axis.

Darkness, too, was welcome for it had exiled the worst of Jane’s demons. She was riding Shirley without a trace of the discomfiture that even candlelight’s forgiving caress provoked. And Shirley would be a poor detective, and an even worse lover, if she required light, moon, star, or otherwise, to observe Jane’s pleasure. She inhaled it as skin and hair brushed against skin and hair. She tasted it in the kiss of a fluttering pulse. She felt it beneath fingers as they roamed from soft belly to deep valley.

But she did not hear it, no.

Were the hand that was, at the moment, fondling Jane’s edible breast to continue its northern journey, it would come across tightly-sealed lips.

The longest night of the year was, like all of their coupling, a silent one.

Jane bent and bared her teeth, ready to mark Shirley’s skin. Shirley’s body and mind opened to receive, collect, savour Jane’s unvoiced cry of release.

Spring could tarry.

Shirley awaited winter’s bite.

* * *

“I’m lost, Shirley.”

“So am I, Jane. Adrift.”

Darkness and sex had rid Shirley of many anchors.

Clothing, reticence.

“I’ve no Christmas gift for you. A clue, please?”

Shirley frowned and kissed Jane’s shoulder. “You are a gift, Jane. I’ve none for you, either. What would you like?”

“I don’t know.”

_“Mum, where are you?”_

_\---_

Jane fled.

“…but, Tilly—“

“Is blind to anything but the new puppy, and Mister Green is keeping careful watch.”

“This place is closed, Shirley.”

“Only to the indiscrete.”

\---

“The steam, the heat, the water, it’s all glorious.”

“So are you.” Damn reticence—and clothing. “Happy Christmas, Jane.”

“This is my gift, isn’t it? An evening at a Turkish bath.”

Shirley led her by the hand. “Yes, and any noise will go wholly unnoticed by anyone.”

“Oh, Shirley.”

\---

Being bitten by Jane was only surpassed by being bitten and begged by Jane.

“Shirley, please.”

“In the water, Jane?”

“Mm. On the steps, too.”

“Bit brazen that.”

“Don’t care. Mark me the way I mark you. Please.”

Shirley bundled Jane in her arms and walked to the pool’s edge.

\---

“Shirley, I don’t want to forget this.”

“Unlikely, I should think.”

“Upstairs, there’s a lady who inks pictures on skin. And I thought, well, a phoenix, is a bit like a dragon, isn’t it?”

Shirley smiled. “More than a bit.”

* * *

“God help me!”

Shirley tapped her fingers on the edge of the table. “I am not retained by the police, but I do supply their deficiencies, Mister Ryder.”

“You were willing to let an innocent man pay for your crime,” added Jane.

“It was Catherine, her ladyship’s waiting-maid, who—“

Jane laughed.

I tut-tutted. “Wrong defence in this particular court, Mister Ryder, but the longer that you remain here, the longer my partner and I must wait to begin a new investigation, so get out!”

“Oh, bless you!”

The door closed.

“Investigation?” asked Jane.

“In which another bird will be the chief feature.”

* * *

“Oh, what a feast!” Jane giggled. “Woodcock is the best cock, isn’t it?”

Shirley nodded. “And Montrachet is difficult to imbibe sparingly.” She made a beckoning motion and mouthed the words ‘my phoenix.’

Jane smiled, then whispered, ‘My dragon’ as she blew out of the candle.

The longest night of winter had passed. Light had triumphed darkness.

Christmas gifts had been given and received. Shirley had even bestowed a bit of seasonal forgiveness, if for a very unseasonal reason.

There’d been feasting. There still was.

Buried between Jane’s legs, gripping her thighs, tasting her, reveling the silent tell-tale signs of her pleasure, Shirley was content. She had no need of cursed jewels, no matter how bonny and bright. 

 


	12. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221B. “They say whatever you’re doing at the stroke of midnight on the last day of the year is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year.”

“They say whatever you’re doing at the stroke of midnight on the last day of the year is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year.”

Jane let her words sink like sultanas in the oatmeal she was stirring.

“Sleeping, I suppose,” said Tilly. Mister Green nodded.

“Perhaps we should schedule a quiet toast for before the appointed hour then, Jane. Wouldn’t want to set a reckless precedent for the entire year.”

Jane smiled.

* * *

“I thought we weren’t going to set a precedent.”

“It’s not yet midnight, Jane.”

The clock on the mantle ticked, then chimed.

DING! DING!

Shirley and Jane kissed.

DING!

_Knock, knock!_

“A client at this hour?”

“Indeed.”

DING!

Mister Green silently shuffled to the front door.

DING!

Jane hurried down the hall, then stopped.

DING!

“Tilly! What are you doing?”

 DING!

“Reading! And practicing my baritsu! It’s what I want to be doing all year!”

DING!

“Put out the candle! Go to sleep! Now!”

DING!

Mister Green ushered in the visitor and put on the gramophone.

DING!

Shirley descended the stairs, fiddling with her belt.

DING!

Jane followed, smoothing her hair and straightening her dress.

DING!

They entered the museum side-by-side, and Shirley announced,

“Good evening, I am Holmes, this is my partner, Watson. Please have a seat and begin your tale at the beginning.”


	13. White & Apple & Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 221b x 3. Jane & the art of [kintsugi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kintsugi). With references to canon story "The Illustrious Client."

“Tilly!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite all right, Tilly. Have you cut yourself?”

“It’s not all right, Shirley. Tilly, clean it up.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“It was just a cup, Jane.”

“It was your favourite, Shirley.”

“It can be mended.”

“Hardly!”

“We’ve others.”

“She shouldn’t have been messing about in the cupboards!”

“Why not?”

“Our first week. Are you certain that this was wise? Bringing us, a child, me, into your living quarters?”

An anxious glance shuttled back and forth between mother and daughter, bypassing Shirley altogether.

“This is your home, Jane. Yours and Tilly’s.”

Jane flinched and stepped away from Shirley. She fell to Tilly’s side and began picking up shards of white ceramic.

* * *

“Jane, stop.”

“I can’t fix it, Shirley. I’m sorry.”

Jane dropped her head on the table and covered it with her hands.

Shirley’s own hand hovered in the air above Jane momentarily then fell back to her side. She retrieved a slim tome from the bookcase, which she then opened and dropped on the table beside Jane’s head.

“The Japanese have made an art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with gold, silver, or platinum. _Kintsugi_ treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.”

“Art’s bollocks,” huffed Jane, staring the misshapen cup. “And broken is broken.”

* * *

Jane dozed in the armchair. A book and a half-eaten apple fell from her lax hand; they landed on the floor with a flutter and a thud.

Jane started. Shirley pretended to wake as Jane did.

“Sorry,” mumbled Jane. “How are you feeling now? How’s the pain?”

“Much better.”

Jane frowned. “You said that last time. You should be in some pain after a murderous attack.”

“The murderous attack was ages ago, and it was only murderous in the newspapers.”

“The murderous attack was last week, and it may not have been as bad as I reported to the newspapers, per instructions, but the results were still no ‘mere scratch.’”

On the sofa, Shirley grunted as she pushed herself to sitting. Then she reached a hand out towards the foot of Jane’s armchair.

“What are you doing?” said Jane, scooping up apple and book. “You’ve a head injury.”

“That book.”

Jane hummed. “All that study of Chinese ceramics for my interview with Baron Gruner reminded me of it. Not Chinese, of course. Japanese. _Kintsugi_. You showed it to me once. Do you remember?”

“Of course. I remember that you said it was bollocks.”

“I didn’t understand. I do now.” Jane smiled and nodded admiringly as she turned page after page of illustration. “You’re right. The pottery and the philosophy, they’re beautiful.”

* * *

“You didn’t flinch when Kitty threw the vitriol on Gruner.”

“No. Does that make me evil?”

“Not to me.”

“He hurt so many women. Broke them for sport. I never thought I’d count myself lucky to have run across Robbie Summers when I did, but he treated me better than Baron Gruner would have. How Miss de Merville defended that monster! I remember that blind faith, even though mine wasn’t a monster, just an ordinary scoundrel.”

“But she came to understand, in the end,” said Shirley. “She saw him for what he was. It’s highly unlikely that she will serve any time for his murder. We’ve seen to that.

“I hope she learns the lesson of _kintsugi_ quicker than I did.”

Shirley smiled, then nodded at the bookcase. “There’s something for you behind the spot where that book sits on the shelf.”

“Now, Shirley,” Jane admonished gently.

“Oh, I’m hardly in a fit state to go out shopping now. I got it ages ago, yes, literally. I got it, well, I suppose for today.”

Jane rose and found the flat rectangular box. She brushed the dust off, then opened it and gasped,

“Oh, Shirley.”

She held up the gold chain.

“It represents your seams,” said Shirley. “Your breakage and repair is part of your story, Jane, your strength and your beauty."


	14. Dangerous.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've lost Mycroft," said Shirley. Gen. 221b. With a reference to BBC Sherlock S4E3.

Jane watched the rain.

“Mister Green!”

Shirley rushed into the room.

Jane frowned. Shirley Holmes did not _rush_.

“Case?” Jane asked anxiously.

“More than likely,” said Shirley, looking behind the door. “We’ve an interview with a client, and then we may be going out.”

“Dangerous?”

“Possibly. That’s why I need Mycroft. Mister Green?”

Like a spectre, Mister Green appeared.

“I’ve lost Mycroft,” whined Shirley.

Shirley Holmes did not _whine_!

Mister Green waved a hand.

Shirley nodded and hurried upstairs, calling, “Tilly?”

Jane looked at Mister Green. “Who’s Mycroft? Not Shirley’s brother.”

“I’m here!” cried Tilly, hurrying in from the garden, with a muddy bundle of fur clomping after her.

Shirley rushed back down the stairs.

“I’m sorry, Shirley,” said Tilly. “D’Artagnan and I were playing in the rain.”

“So, his name’s D’Artagnan this week?” teased Jane. “Suits him better than Hercules.”

“Thank you. This,” said Shirley, taking the umbrella from Tilly, “is Mycroft.”

Jane laughed. “It’d be at home at the Diogenes Club.”

Shirley smiled, then twisted the handle and withdrew a sword, which she gave a fencer’s flourish. She handed the sheath to Jane, then twisted the handle once more. It popped off, and she aimed it at the apple on the table.

And fired.

Jane and Tilly stared, wide-eyed as Shirley grinned and said,

“Much better than a brother.”


	15. Choices & I DO & Middles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For SCFrankles, who requested Lester/Mister Biggs. The conversation heart prompt said: I DO.

To Mister Green, there was nothing a good cup of tea couldn’t improve, so when he heard the ladies’ footfall, the stride of Miss Jane quite regular, but that of Miss Shirley unmistakably agitated, he put the kettle on.

“Really, Jane, it’s about choices,” Miss Shirley was saying as they entered 221B. “Lester chose to be exceedingly tiresome—”

“And you chose to withhold evidence,” finished Jane. She had a pair of garment bags slung over one arm, which Mister Green took charge of at once.

“The wedding attire of Mister Ricolleti of the club foot and his abominable wife,” explained Shirley.

Mister Green gave an inquiring nod.

“No,” said Shirley. “Quite clean. For the museum.”

“Do look, Mister Green,” said Jane with a grin. “The dress is magnificent.”

Mister Green shuffled silently to the disguise-room-cum-private-museum. He removed the garments from the bags. Miss Jane had been correct.

“No, this clothes are not important, this letter from Ricoletti is the vital clue, and when Lester stops being an arse, he’ll know it.”

“But Shirley you know why Lester was in a bad mood. Mister Biggs tended his resignation and took a post with a wealthy financier.”

“Good. It’s high time Lester appreciated Mister Biggs. Perhaps absence will do something.”

“Perhaps,” said Jane. “Or…”

She looked at Mister Green making tea broodingly.

* * *

When Mister Green heard Miss Shirley’s steps, still agitated, he did not put the kettle on, but rather with a silent glance, he dispatched Miss Jane to the door.

Jane crowded the entrance, pushing Shirley back onto the pavement.

“Shirley!” cried she breathlessly. “Let’s take a walk! It’s a glorious day.”

“It’s a horrid day,” argued Shirley. “It’s the middles that vex me, Jane. The beginnings of a case, there’s all kinds of energy and possibility, and, naturally, at the end, there’s triumph, or, on occasion, defeat, but that has its own momentum, too. But the middles, ah, the middles is where the work is. And right now there are two cases in which we are middling muddling through, pass red herring and true clue—”

“Lovely, Shirley. How ‘bout that walk?”

“No, I want a cup of tea. I need to think about Ricolett and this new case of Mister Biggs’ about John Vincent Harden.”

“Tea shop, then!”

“What is going on, Jane?! I demand an answer.”

“I’ll tell you at the tea shop, then how about Madame Tussaud? We’ll go to the Murder Room and you can tell me which ones they got wrong again. It’ll help you think.”

Shirley frowned, then relented. “Very well. But you owe me a full explanation.”

Mister Green, overhearing this, sighed, then nodded benignly.

* * *

“You and Mister Green conspired to lock Lester and Mister Biggs in the dressing room of our flat!” cried Shirley over buns and weak Earl Grey.

“We didn’t conspire, we did it. With a picnic hamper, a bottle of wine, and love poems.”

“They write love poems?”

“No, but I can,” said Jane, jutting out her chin.

“A regular Cyrano. How ever did you lure them there?”

“I sent a telegram to Lester from you about Ricoletti’s letter—”

“Jane!”

“And Mister Green sent a telegram to Mister Biggs from you about John Vincent Harden—”

“Good Lord!”

“I put the letter in the far recesses of the dressing room. Lester went inside. Then Mister Green quietly ushered Mister Biggs in the dressing room for his appointment with you. And wham! It was like trapping rabbits. If rabbits were a bit more stupid than they are.”

“What do you hope to accomplish by this kidnapping and imprisonment?”

“Reconciliation. Confessions. Etcetera.”

“Heavy-handed.”

“Do you think those two would respond to subtlety?”

Shirley conceded the point. “Well, we’ve got two cases to solve, then we’re freeing them.”

“Very well.”

* * *

Mister Green unbolted the door.

“I do,” vowed Mister Briggs in full bridal regalia.

“May I kiss the bride?” asked Lester.

Mister Green shut the door softly, then went to make tea, his special celebratory post-nuptial brew.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
